Oliver's Backstory:
Oliver used to be the kind of student teachers smiled at in the hallway. Neat notebooks, quick wit, high test scores. In high school, he was popular—not the loudest in the room, but the one people remembered. He didn't slack off. He believed in the system. When adults said, "Do well in school, go to college, and you'll have a good life," he listened.
And he did.
He graduated near the top of his class. Got into FMAU—Florida Metropolitan Arts & University—and majored in astronomy. He loved the stars. Spent nights at the campus observatory staring into black skies and dreaming of discoveries, of purpose, of floating far from Earth.
But reality was quieter than space. And harsher.
After college, degree in hand, he didn't find a job in research or anything close to the cosmos. Bills stacked up. So he took what he could get—a manufacturing job at a metal works company, not far from his rental apartment. It wasn't glamorous, but it paid. He told himself it was temporary. That the right job was just around the corner.
Then the tariffs hit.
When President Trump imposed sweeping tariffs on imported aluminum, everything changed. The company Oliver worked for, which relied heavily on aluminum parts, halted production. The bosses cut costs. Oliver was let go within the month.
No severance. Just a quiet meeting in a small office and a hand on his shoulder.
Jobless and out of savings, his rent fell behind. He held out for a bit—eating cheap, skipping meals, trying freelance gigs and temp work. Nothing stuck. Eventually, the eviction notice came.
He packed his things and moved back in with his aging parents.
That was few months ago.
Since then, the job applications have stacked up—over 300 and counting. The interviews stopped coming. The dreams of astronomy have long since been boxed away, replaced by late nights, broken dryers, half-watched anime, and long, gray mornings that begin in silence.
He's 29 now.
No career.
No apartment.
No clear way forward.
Just a name, a room, and the weight of "You had so much potential."
The room is stifling, heavy with heat that clings to the skin and dulls the senses. The broken AC offers no relief, and the open window lets in only more hot air, thick with dust and city noise. A tired fan creaks in slow circles, barely stirring the air. The space is cluttered and grimy—an unmade bed slumps in one corner, its sheets twisted and stained with sweat. A worn couch, sagging in the middle, is buried under clothes and half-empty bottles. On a scratched table, a laptop hums faintly beside a drawer left ajar, stuffed with papers and wires. The whole room smells faintly of sweat, stale food, and the weight of long, restless hours.
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[Afterwards: Chapter 2, Part 2: Tweets] 🐦
Oliver lies sprawled on the bed, sweat clinging to his skin in the sweltering heat of the room. The fan clicks lazily above him, barely moving the thick air. His over-200-pound frame sinks into the mattress, every breath pushing against the weight on his ribs, making even stillness feel like effort. Stripping off his shirt brings only a moment's relief—his chest exposed to the oppressive warmth, skin damp, sticking to the sheets.
Phone in hand, thumb scrolling endlessly, his eyes glaze over a flood of chaos: a fight breaking out in a McDonald's, shaky footage of screaming, trays flying; bizarre headlines and jarring news clips; tweets filled with anti-immigrant rage. The screen glows against his face, lighting the fatigue in his eyes. It's a stream of noise, anger, and absurdity, and still he scrolls, too drained to look away, too restless to sleep.
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[Scene: Late Night – Oliver's Room, Laptop Balanced on Chest]
The room was dim and motionless, lit only by the pale glow of the laptop screen propped against Oliver's chest as he lay flat on his bed. A half-full water bottle rolled lazily near his side, condensation beading against his old bedsheet.
The video played, grainy and unedited. A Caucasian guy, maybe early 30s, sat on a cracked patio chair, cigarette in hand, the smoke curling lazily upward into a pale sky. He wore mirrored sunglasses, even though the sun had long since dipped, and spoke with the low monotone of someone who hadn't truly cared for a while.
> "It's all fake, man. The jobs, the interviews, the handshakes. All of it. Nobody really cares. Everyone's just pretending 'til the day they drop."
He exhaled smoke, then glanced at the glowing end of his cigarette, almost surprised to see it in his hand.
> "And yeah, I know—I said never smoke. I said that before. Whatever. Who cares."
The video had maybe 400 views.
5,072 subscribers.
Channel name: something like "QuietCollapse".
Oliver didn't smile. Didn't nod.
He just watched.
Next video autoplayed.
A African American man with dreads , sitting in a cluttered room, dim lamp buzzing faintly in the background. His voice was raspy, soft like a whisper, but tired in a way that didn't need to raise itself.
> "You ever just… wake up tired? Like before your eyes even open, your body already knows it's gonna be another loss? That's most days now."
> "Life's just a long shift with no clock-out time. And every 'hopeful' person just feels like a commercial trying to sell me something I can't afford."
Oliver blinked slowly. His breathing shallow. His ribs ached where the laptop pressed slightly into him.
He didn't feel sad.
Didn't feel moved.
Just… watched.
Like watching the rain run down a window, or the ceiling fan spin. Words flowed by like water in a stream he didn't bother stepping into.
He clicked nothing.
Let the next video roll.
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[Scene: Midday – Kitchen Table, Phone to Ear, Sunlight Glazing the Countertops]**
The microwave hummed in the background, reheating leftover fries. Outside, the buzz of cicadas whined beneath the thick Florida heat. A fly looped lazily near the window, occasionally tapping the glass.
Oliver sat at the kitchen table, slouched forward, a warm water bottle by his elbow, phone pressed to his ear. His face looked worn, sweat clinging to his brow. His shirt stuck to his back.
His younger brother's voice came through the phone—clear, a little distant.
> BROTHER (voice through phone)
"So listen… I might've found you something. It's not much, but it's better than, you know… this."
Oliver rubbed his temple with two fingers, eyes dull.
OLIVER
"Where?"
> BROTHER
"Old duplex out by State Road 60, near that gas station with the broken sign. Rent's low, landlord's chill. But—it's got no AC. Like... at all."
Oliver looked toward the hallway, where the fan groaned faintly from his bedroom.
OLIVER
(flat)
"So a very hot place, basically."
> BROTHER
"Yeah, but you'd have your own place again. That's gotta count for something, right?"
Oliver didn't answer right away. He scratched the side of his face, staring at a small stain on the table—orange juice, maybe, from this morning.
OLIVER
"You know Dad works all day out in this heat, right? Down at True Wash. Still scrubbing bumpers like it's 1999."
> BROTHER
"Yeah, I know. Guy's a machine."
OLIVER
"I'm not. I barely get out of bed without my ribs complaining."
> BROTHER
"Then maybe having a place will help you get some momentum back."
Oliver stared blankly toward the fridge. The fan clicked off in the distance, finally giving up. The silence pressed in.
OLIVER
"I'll think about it."
> BROTHER
"You always do. Just don't take too long, okay? Places like that disappear fast. Even the sweaty ones."
OLIVER
(quietly)
"Yeah."
The call ended with a few vague assurances. Oliver sat there a moment longer, the microwave beeping behind him, forgotten fries gone cold again.
The heat settled around his shoulders like a heavy coat.
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[Scene: Afternoon – Driveway, Overcast Skies Rumbling]
The air was thick and motionless, that eerie quiet before a storm fully breaks open. The clouds above sagged heavy with rain, sky tinged a yellowish gray. A single crow flew overhead, its cry sharp in the stillness.
Oliver stood by his old, sun-faded sedan—dusty blue, a cracked bumper, a slight squeak every time the door opened. The back seat was already half-stuffed with trash bags filled with clothes, plastic crates holding books, deodorant, cables, loose socks, a cheap rice cooker.
His mother stood by the porch with a small box in her arms—neatly packed with folded shirts, a family photo from the living room shelf, and a Ziplock bag with pain medicine he rarely remembered to take.
MOTHER
(softly, without looking at him)
"Here's the last of it. I packed your vitamins. And a towel. The one you like, the striped one."
Oliver took it from her. Their hands touched for just a second. She didn't say anything else. He nodded.
OLIVER
"Thanks."
He opened the trunk with some resistance, shoved the box in. A raindrop tapped his shoulder. Then another. Then ten.
He didn't flinch. Just walked to the driver's side, slid in slowly, his ribs stiff as ever, the seat adjusted too far back but he was too tired to fix it.
His mom stood by the porch still, arms crossed, watching quietly, her shirt already catching the early drops.
He started the car. The engine coughed before turning over. The radio came on low—static at first, then a country song he didn't know and wouldn't remember.
As he pulled out, the first sheets of rain began to fall—thin at first, then heavy, washing down the windshield in thick, uneven strokes. The wipers dragged slowly across the glass, squealing faintly.
No final wave.
No tears.
Just the sound of water, the hum of tires, and a house growing smaller in the rearview mirror.
Oliver blinked slowly, eyes on the road, mouth a flat line.
He didn't know if this was an ending, or just the next stretch of the same gray line.
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[Scene: Early Evening – New Apartment, First Arrival]
The rain had eased into a mist by the time Oliver pulled up to the duplex. The small building sat between a cracked sidewalk and a gravel driveway, paint chipped and faded from the sun. One porch light buzzed faintly above the door, surrounded by a halo of gnats.
He turned the car off. Sat there for a second. His hands rested on the steering wheel, unmoving. Then, with a slow breath, he opened the door.
The humid air rushed in like a wall. Inside was no better—thick heat, clinging to the skin, stale and unmoving. The front door creaked as he pushed it open. The hinges felt stiff, like the place hadn't been lived in for a while.
The interior was modest. Beige walls. Old tile floors. One ceiling light with a dull yellow glow. A beat-up counter in the small kitchen, a single window with half a curtain. The air inside had that distinct, unpleasant stillness of a place that had baked in the sun all day.
No furniture yet. No sound but the creaking of his shoes and the ticking of the ceiling fan switch—which he tried. Nothing happened.
OLIVER
(muttering)
"Of course not."
He turned back outside, opened the back seat, and reached for the big box fan—the one his parents had used in the garage, wide-bladed, scarred with use. He carried it under one arm, awkwardly, the weight pressing against his ribs. His shirt clung to his back already, the sweat from the car mixing with the damp air.
Inside again, he dropped the fan in the middle of the room with a dull thud. Plugged it in.
The fan roared to life—loud, mechanical, desperate. The airflow wasn't strong, but it was movement. Oliver stood in front of it for a few moments, arms loose at his sides, letting the warm air slap his face.
It wasn't relief. But it was something.
He looked around at the empty room—boxes by the wall, a stray sock by the door, a half-unpacked crate of kitchenware slumped against the corner.
He took a deep breath, his chest rising slow. The air smelled like dust and humidity.
The rain tapped gently against the window.
Another night.
Another beginning that didn't feel like one.